


Graceful and Gleaming

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Rimming, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-11
Updated: 2011-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An afternoon tryst; a happy memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graceful and Gleaming

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [2011 Sex Is Not the Enemy Fest](http://villainny.livejournal.com/1626605.html), based on [this image](http://ohyeaaah.tumblr.com/post/2459832107) via the [Sex Is Not the Enemy](http://sexisnottheenemy.tumblr.com/) blog (both image and blog are adult and NSFW).

They have all afternoon for once, and the cold winter sunshine is stealing in pale through the flimsy curtains of Kingsley’s flat. He draws his leg back even further when Moody’s shoulder nudges at it, spreading himself wide. The flicker of a hot tongue teases him again.

Kingsley’s hand twists in the quilt. It’s a cheap, shiny thing, but it fits the oversized bed, which in turn fills more than half of the tiny flat. That’s all right, though. Work keeps him abroad at all hours, and sleeping is all he ever does here, save on the pleasantly surprising days when Moody turns up in the city.

"Oh..."

He bites his lip to keep quiet. It’s not concern for the neighbours. There’s a silencing charm on the walls and windows. But he wants to hear it: the wet, obscene sounds of Moody’s mouth. Warm breath against his bare skin, and that slick, wicked jab right inside him.

He lets go of the quilt and reaches for Moody, fingers trailing over scars and goosebumps. Over a sharp hip. Down a firm, furred stomach. Moody’s cock is hot and thick in his hand, growing harder as he lazily strokes it. The slow, twisting rub earns him a rough hum, and Moody shifts beside him, curled like a question mark, and bites him on the thigh.

"Vampire," Kingsley accuses.

"Pansy." Moody’s voice is muffled as he promptly returns to licking him thoroughly from stones to tailbone.

Kingsley’s breath catches hard, and he closes his eyes, wondering if he could come from nothing but this. He wouldn’t think so, but Moody has a way with the improbable. The man is as eccentric in bed as he was in the field. It’s as though he’s some self-taught musical prodigy who holds his violin upside down. With Moody, there’s no sensible symmetry of mouth to mouth and hips to hips. The man sprawls or else coils up like a great cat, and he doesn’t seem to believe that you start with kissing and move on to stroking, to sucking, to fucking.

If this were anyone else with his mouth between Kingsley’s thighs, opening him up until he’s wet and aching, he’d know he was meant to be begging to be buggered through the wall. Not that he’d mind that. He gives Moody’s cock a soft squeeze, thumb rubbing a slick drop over the smooth glans. But they have all afternoon, and Moody is driving him mad with that clever tongue for no other reason than the fact that he wants to, and Kingsley is stroking Moody’s cock for no other reason than the fact that it feels so good in his hand, and he finds himself laughing out loud with the sheer joy of it.

Moody looks up, eye narrowed. There’s a red mark on his cheek where it’s been pressed against Kingsley’s thigh, and his salt-and-pepper hair is mussed, standing up in wayward tufts. "Problem, Shacklebolt?"

"Not a one," Kingsley says.

A lynx, he decides as he looks him over in hungry admiration, thinking of stocky limbs and sharp ears and big paws. Not a lion or a tiger, but a sly, spry old lynx. Then he shakes his head at his own fancies and musses Moody’s hair up even further as he pushes him firmly back down.

He grins. “Everything’s perfect.”


End file.
